Cursed
by D.Genesis
Summary: Harry figured he was cursed. Or maybe Death just wanted him that much sooner. Why else would he wake up in some unknown place, with people that didn't speak his language save for Death in the guise of Riddle following him everywhere? LoTR crossover. Legolas/Harry
1. Of invisible Companions

**Cursed**

**Summary: **Harry figured he was cursed. Or maybe Death just wanted him that much sooner. Why else would he wake up in some unknown place, with people that didn't speak his language save for Death in the guise of Riddle following him everywhere? LoTR crossover. Legolas/Harry  
**Warnings: **AU**. **Language. Violence. Adult situations. _**Creature-fic.**_ _**Suggestive**_ dialogue. **Disturbing** adult content and themes. _Parental-complexes_. **Character Deaths.** Eventual **Slash. (boy x boy) **Some **OOC-ness**. Butchering of Neo-Sindarin for the sake of certain _**names**_ and _**pronouns**_ only. Attempts at strange humour?  
The** UNEDITED VERSION **of this story(_violence/sexual content that __**exceeds M**_)will be** posted on AO3.** However, considering Tolkien's take on elves, the sex part will likely take a long while to get to. So this applies largely to the liberal amounts of violence that I sprinkle about like sugar. **Un'beta'd!  
Disclaimer: **This is a work of fanfiction and therefore I do not own the characters, settings etc. I own only the plot and writing itself.  
**Main pairings: (Top/bottom) **_Eventual, _Legolas/Harry  
**Side/Implied/One-sided pairings:** Canon pairings from _all_ books **minus** the Harry/Ginny one. Death!Tom/Harry (Sort of. We'll see how far this goes.)

Anyone who _isn't_ already familiar with my portrayal of Harry, despite his position in sex does not mean he will act in anyway girly.

_**I have warned you**_. If you are uncomfortable with **any** of this, then turn back now.

* * *

-x&x-

**1**

**Of invisible Companions and foreign speaking Saviours**

-x&x-

* * *

Waking was an arduous affair, wrought with many trials, one in the form of uncooperative, pin-and-needle-tingly limbs and a head that felt like it had been set upon by an army of vengeful goblins wielding blunt instruments. However, By no means did that presumed dullness dampen any of Harry Potter's pain.

His body was weak and while the bed on which he lay was much... spongier than he was used to, it was still delectably soft and certainly wasn't helping in his futile attempts at coaxing his body into removing itself from its current horizontal position.

He squinted into the brightness above, unable to discern a thing despite his eyesight having been corrected since his sixteenth birthday—another, thoroughly painful experience before he'd blessedly fallen into unconsciousness—and blinked, to try clear his apparently, pain-blurred eyes.

It helped little.

_Very_ little.

_Madame Pomfrey really must be slipping in her old age,_ he mused, derisively.

Where was Madame Pomfrey anyway? For that matter, where was everyone else? He could hear nothing save for... bird song and very,_ very _distant voices drifting toward him from who knew where.

His eyebrows drew downwards, scrunched in confusion—at least, he assumed so, since he couldn't properly feel his face beyond the pain in his head—and blinked more bright, golden and silvery light.

Odd.

With a shuffle, he tried to sit up, fell backwards almost immediately—head impossibly heavy, like an overfilled cauldron—and sank straight back down into the—dangerously soft—bed. Merlin, it was like sleeping on an under filled water bed... he assumed, having no real idea but believing it the closest comparison. Or maybe an actual sponge. That seemed more fitting to the cushy substance that his fingers met when he grasped at the bed beneath him.

He had the strong suspicion that he wasn't in Hogwarts anymore. This didn't feel like the magical school. Gone was the familiar wash of magics against his senses, instead replaced by something else. There was still magic there, certainly but it was vastly different, more... tranquil? St. Mungos then? Was he injured that badly?

But that didn't account for the birds... Nor the remarkably earthy scent that suffused the very air he breathed. Although the sweet scent of flowers wasn't unusual... given numerous times in the past he'd woken in the hospital to bouquets galore.

Just where was he?

His last recollection was of being in the Great hall, wasn't it? Or, maybe he hadn't actually been there yet? No, he was sure he had. Voldemort was dead.

Wasn't he?

No. He most certainly was, Harry was sure of it. Harry had died and miraculously revived—or rather, not quite so miraculously—and Narcissa had lied, told everyone he was dead and Neville had killed Nagini and Harry had duelled Voldemort and taken back the Elder wa—

But where the bloody hell was it?

Anxiety rising, his hands rose to do a swift pat down of his body, only his fingers spasmed before he could achieve anything of worth and his arms seized until he dropped the limb once more. Even then it still twitched fitfully.

What was wrong with him? Had a death eater gotten him when his back was turned or something?

The soft murmur of someone nearby had his head jerking around.

Big mistake.

He winced, eyes snapping shut as agony lanced through his skull like the cruciatus and down his spine. Usually he was perfectly fine with a little pain but this was a trial, even for him. The world spun around him dizzyingly, tilted, jerked and he swallowed to keep himself from vomiting.

The voice came again, closer and there was a cool hand pressed to his brow. Even in his pained delirium he had sense enough to realise the person was talking to him. A female by high, sweet, lyrical cadence to her voice and the delicateness of the appendage stroking his forehead.

He just didn't understand a word she were saying.

_Why_ didn't he understand a thing she was saying? It was alarming but no more so than the excruciating stabbing pain in his head. Where was Ron? Hermione? Maybe he really was in St. Mungos? Although, like all hospitals when he'd been there last it had smelled strongly of disinfectant and that subtle, sickly sweet of ill people. However St. Mungos would explain the inability to understand his healers words... to an extent.

Actually, no. That wouldn't. Merlin, he wasn't even making sense in his own head anymore.

"She wishes to know what pains you."

This voice was male and vaguely familiar in the smooth, cultured tones but Harry hurt too much to allocate any of his available thought processes to work out the _hows_ of it. He was simply pleased enough to discover an English speaking person.

"_My head_," he rasped, except the words that escaped him were ones he'd never heard before and wow, he sounded awful. Like his voice box had been taken to with sandpaper then finished with buckets of gravel. "_Nausea. Wh-where am I? Am I in St. Mungos_?"

Again, his words became foreign once they left his mouth. How was he to communicate when he couldn't understand his own words?

But it seemed his fear in vain for the hand vanished from his head as the female moved away. Then he was helped into a sitting position and something cool and smooth was pressed to his lips. The suggestion to drink was implicit but apparent kindness or not, he wasn't willing to accept anything from strangers unless he knew what it was or where he was.

Harry forced his eyes open and was met with walls of blurred glowing silver-white. Merlin, his head must be worse off than he's originally assumed. Beside him was the fuzzy, cart wheeling form of a tall, pale man clad entirely in black.

The female spoke again, calmly.

Her manner certainly reminded him of Madame Pomfrey.

"It is to help with the pain," the man supplied as the female pressed the container of what was supposed to be pain reliever to his mouth again. No more insistent than her first attempt.

Harry couldn't help but think the man's tone sardonic and mightily untrustworthy.

However, since he, himself, couldn't talk to the female tending him, he was forced to rely on the man's interpretations for him.

_Well, in for a knut_, he inwardly snorted, _in for a galleon._

Slightly bitter and largely paranoid, Harry accepted the sloshing liquid that was pressed to his lips ready for the inevitable poisoning to occur. What other choice did he have? He could simply sit there and try wait out the dizziness, which may take a while or accept the assistance for what it appeared to be and if he didn't drop dead immediately: super.

The substance was sweet, he decided, and... sticky, like honey but tasted like nothing he'd ever sampled before. It also had no immediate effect. He grew instantly resigned. How long would it take for this poison to work anyway? Would it be slow acting? Painful? Or a gradual weakening of his body as it slowly wound down to the unavoidable?

A dampened cloth was pressed against his forehead once more and the female said something to him before walking... through a gap between in a silvery... tree trunk? He blinked but no, the image remained unchanging. He was definitely seeing a silver tree with a platform of a darker, more golden wood wrapped around it.

Intrigued despite himself, he examined his surroundings with a more critical eye and concluded he was in some kind of tree house. Or rather, _outside_ of an actual tree house, since he was propped up on a bed of soft, green mosses and an inordinate amount of... dark hair?—he stared, baffled—and his...area—what else could he call it, ward?—had no actual walls to speak of... more, gauzy, curtains to offer the illusion of privacy in the stead of solid walls.

But the trunk in which the girl had vanished was actually an elaborately carved—sculpted?—archway of twining branches that acted as some kind of door to the tree house he lay outside of. And really, tree house didn't do the awe inspiring creation before him justice, for while it was a house that was situated in a tree, it was certainly nothing like the pitiful things he'd seen constructed for the amusement of children. What met his widened eyes was an actual adult sized house, of sorts.

Still, it appeared he was in a village built into trees, based on the fact he spotted more of the winding platforms—like the one on which his bed lay—that connected to more little houses that seemed to _grow_ out of the very trees themselves. It was... _marvellous_ and daunting.

Just where the hell was he? He'd never heard of such a tree city before and was certain either Hermione or Luna would have brought it up in conversation at least once.

His brows creased—and he was surprised when he actually felt them move as instructed, the pain in his head having subsided in his distracted state—his eyes examined the hair that looked an awful lot like his own, then settled on the pale, handsome face and glowing, ruby-red eyes of Tom Riddle.

Huh.

_Wait, what? Riddle!?_

Harry tensed, blood fleeing his face as his heart fluttered frantically against his ribcage. Was he having a heart attack?

His gaze was automatically shifted from the other's jewel-bright gaze, a little lower.

"How precious," Riddle drawled, arms crossed, a finger tapped almost impatiently on the opposite arm's bicep and why Harry even noticed such a thing, he had no idea. "Finally come to your senses, have you? I must say, it took a while. I am most disappointed in you. Most disappointed indeed."

"How is this possible?" Harry demanded, mouth dry, still held firmly in the grasp of shock, his hands trembled. "You were dead! We got all of your Horcruxes."

Riddle's dark eyes lit with sadistic glee and Harry's stomach plummeted into his feet as he caught it.

"Ah, yes," the older male murmured. "Thank you for that, by the way," he gave a tiny, mock bow. "Were it not for you, I fear it would have taken many more years to finally claim Riddle. No one escapes me. _No one._"

_Claim Riddle? No one escapes—_

"Death?" the Potter queried, mouth agape.

"At your service, My Lord." Another mocking, albeit fluid, bow followed.

But Harry was confused. _This_ was Death? This was _Death_. Then he grew suspicious, his eyes narrowed and the heaviness in his stomach lifted. A smidgen. "_Explain_."

The smirk that was directed at him was cynical at best and downright infuriating at worst and he was seized by the urge to roll his eyes. "Certainly, _Master_. I shall impart with as much as I am able. What is it you wish to ask?"

Hadn't Harry just—? Ack, sod it.

"Why did you choose to look like—" he gestured roughly toward the other.

"Tom Riddle?" The not-Riddle drawled.

Harry glowered, the other's mannerisms bothered him and coaxed out his own less than desirable traits. "Yes," he ground out.

"I would have thought you knew," replied Death, succinctly.

Harry's mood grew increasingly blacker. Really, couldn't he get a straight answer for once? Voldemort was never this irritating... Then again, his younger self was less than forthright when it came to answering questions that he felt little interest in... "Then why would I be asking?"

"Rhetoric?"

The Potter didn't reply.

"He's familiar to you," Riddle drawled, his own patience short, apparently. "And your subconscious recognises him as the main cause of death; therefore you view him as Death. Comprehend?"

_Bastard._

"Alright then how did I come to be your master? Presumably I—" Harry hesitated in mentioning the Hallows, unsure. The last thing he wanted was for a possibly young Tom Riddle running around seeking Death's instruments. "—met certain _requirements_." He folded his arms, relieved that his limbs didn't tingle anymore. "However, I'm unsure what... exactly they are. Or rather, _were,_ on top of which, I—"

Riddle's head tilted slightly as did the corner of his mouth. "Met me?" He interjected, quietly. "I am aware and yet, _They_—all three Hallows—" the other regarded him coolly, "still heed your summons."

So Riddle _did_ know about the Hallows, after all. It was beginning to look more likely that this really was Death. The green-eyed boy noted how he made no mention of himself but decided to leave that for the moment preoccupied by this revelation. So the Hallows heeded his call? Well, as far as he was concerned, they hadn't so far. If they had, wouldn't he have had the El—

Abruptly, the Eldar wand appeared in his right hand, the weight and feel foreign. Startled he dropped it only to have the length of wood vanish before it touched his lap.

How terribly convenient.

Alright, so he could 'apparently' summon the Hallows at will. That was a concept he intended to experiment with later.

Preferably away from Riddle's knowing eyes.

"So," the teen began, dubious, voiced his thoughts, "because I managed to obtain all your Hallows, I became you master?"

"And you _embraced_ me," informed Riddle quietly, and something about that one sentence made Harry feel quite uncomfortable. He shifted, unnerved with a grimace.

Maybe it was the 'embraced' part. Yeah. Most likely.

That didn't make them... bosom buddies or anything.

Did it?

Merlin he hoped not.

"Say I believe you..." the green-eyed teen stated, slowly, not wanting to dwell on his disturbing thoughts and still quite unconvinced that he was, somehow Master of Death. The concept wasn't something he could wrap his head around; somehow, he couldn't see Death—certainly not while dressed in Riddle's body—to be a very merciful being. Far from it. "Where am I?" he continued. "How did I get here? Why is it you've decided to... manifest yourself now?"

Those seemed the basics.

"Where are you?" the Riddle-lookalike asked, softly. Even his mannerisms were eerily reminiscent of Riddles. Or at least, what Harry had borne witness to. "Somewhere you are needed. How you came to be here? Well, you were summoned, of course. How _else_ might you have arrived? The reason for my appearance at all is because it is required of me at present."

Which answered next to nothing. Harry grit his teeth. Riddle was insufferable.

Or rather, Death was insufferable.

Really, having this conversation with Death, that looked a great deal like Riddle did when he'd spoken with Hepzibah Smith all those years ago was disconcerting. How old had he been back then? In his early twenties? Actually, Harry was beginning to wonder if he was even awake at all. Even his dreams weren't usually this crazy.

Honestly, he was, somehow, Master of Death? And Death itself walking and talking and _acting_ like Tom Riddle! Surely, he had some form of head injury? It would explain the pain he felt upon his 'awakening.' Like conversation occasionally carried into ones' dreams, pain could, too.

That actually made more sense.

"Alright," Harry ground out, hands fisted in his... robed? lap. Why hadn't he noticed his changed clothing sooner? He rubbed the fine fabric between his index and thumb absently, cast his gaze about the strange not-room in which he awoke. "And where _is_ this place that I was needed? It's name would suffice."

Riddle's smirk flashed perfect white teeth. "Why, Arda, of course."

Harry's face blanked. Arda? Was that in the southern hemisphere? Was he anywhere near England anymore? He'd never heard of it.

"And Arda's location in relation to London?"

"Nowhere near, I am afraid to say."

Merlin, trying to get answers from Riddle-Death-er, Riddle—he'd stick with that name, it was more familiar and less disturbing—was like pulling teeth from a dragon.

Er, perhaps not. At least he wasn't likely to lose limbs.

"Riddle!"

Riddle's expression sobered, though his eyes glinted in humour at Harry's expense. He straightened up, appearing for all intents and purposes like a dark king despite his feigned humility, not a wrinkle in his... bizarrely _Muggle _suit. "Yes, _Master_?"

The mocking pitch couldn't possibly be any more obvious.

Harry hesitated, so far Riddle had answered most of his questions even if they'd been unhelpful but perhaps he simply wasn't asking the right questions? While Voldemort was more than willing to go off on tangents and tell all—more or less—this one, which wasn't really Riddle, he had to remind himself, was being intentionally tight-lipped.

The situation reminded him of a genie.

Worrying his lower lip, Harry considered his words. "I want to know the name of the one who summoned me here and how and the exact reasons for this summons, you've told me it was to 'help.'"

Ruby eyes glittered but whether in displeasure, amusement or satisfaction the teen couldn't hope to guess. "The one named Galemir brought you here by magic to save his people."

_Brilliant._

"Another war?" Harry gritted out, irritable and bitter if not extremely weary as well. He'd just barely scraped through the last bloody war! And hadn't even had enough time to enjoy that before he was whisked away to another? "If you are, in fact, Death," he muttered, aggravation palpable, "then how do I know this wasn't merely some plot to also claim me sooner? After all, I've evaded you twice now and as you said, 'no one escapes' you."

Riddle smiled charmingly and the sight of it only served to creep the teen out further. The Gryffindor subtly edged backward in his mossy bed. It barely made a noise against the material of his robe.

"Not at all," the older male replied. "It would be far more beneficial to myself should you _not_ have arrived here."

Puzzled, Harry's brow crinkled in thought. "What do you mean?"

The other dusted imaginary lint from his smart looking blazer; the drag of his fingertips across the fabric incongruous in their present setting. "Whatever you think it means," he intoned smoothly. "Now if you are quite—"

But Harry's statement interrupted; "More beneficial to you..." he mused, aloud. "More people would die..." he glanced up, horror shining in his bright green eyes, "if I hadn't arrived?"

"Well now, you _do_ know how to use that head of yours."

Harry glowered at the comment, feeling for a moment, like he was in potions class with Snape all over again. Then felt an immediate stab of pity for the lost man. Snape may never have been a nice man by any means, but he'd been a good man despite his numerous flaws and hadn't deserved to go the way he had. He was a hero.

Anger blazed in the pit of his stomach as his eyes settled upon a de-aged version of the man that killed said hero.

"I can't have been too stupid to have outmanoeuvred y-Voldemort." He inwardly cursed the near slip in his moment of musing. But it was so easy just believing that he was dealing with an incarnation of Voldemort now than some ageless entity. Especially with the way the other was acting.

"Did I claim you were?" Riddle appeared mildly confused. Harry chose not to trust that expression.

The teen's glower deepened. "It was implied," he huffed.

"Was it?" The other's smile grew almost offensively polite. "You cannot help Galemir anymore than your presence here will allow," Riddle informed him with a sharp tilt to his head.

Harry was outraged. "You mean to say, that I was brought here to help this Galemir but I _can't_?!" he hissed, caught between indignation and ire. What the hell was he brought here for if he couldn't even do anything? It all seemed rather counterproductive. "But—"

Riddle shot him a dismissive look. "You will meet him eventually."

_Eventually?!_

"But you didn't even—"

"There is no need," the other drawled, expression icy and decidedly impatient as he twitched on the spot like a restless cat. "I informed you, did I not, that I would answer you as best I could? And I have. Your very presence here has helped the boy as much as it ever could. You can do no more for him than to stay."

Right. Okay. That made no sense whatsoever. _Wait—_

"_Stay_?" the teen exclaimed. "I can't possibly—"

"And how might you return?" Riddle purred, delight apparent from the glow of his eyes right down to the smile alighting his thin lips. "You are unable to Apparate back to London... there is a reason International Portkeys exist and it would be most... _unfortunate_, should you lose that pretty little head of yours. But I daresay I shall most _certainly_ enjoy the pleasure of your company back within _my_ domain."

And Harry decided then and there that he wanted to live as long as possible. If only to avoid being alone with Riddle. In _his_ domain.

"Fine. A portkey then—"

"Out of the question," the other informed him with relish, gaze locked upon his features as though savouring his growing despair. "None in Arda can make you a portkey, nor can you send for one."

Frustrated and feeling so completely out of his depth, Harry could only fix Riddle was a determined stare. "There are other means, surely. Muggle means if necessary. This Galemir somehow summoned me here so there _must_ be a way to send me back," he reasoned, eyed the other speculatively. How far away from normal civilisation could he possibly be? Was it some island right near the bottom of the world? Without Floo-travel? Calls? And no owls or other delivery? "Could you?"

Riddle's smile deepened. "Not my area of expertise... my apologies and I believe you will find the Muggles' method of transportation here to be rather... _lacking_."

A frustrated breath left the Gryffindor's lips in a hiss. "Then my best chance is finding someone who knows the spell that brought me here—"

"Presuming, of course, that anyone else even knows of this so called 'Spell' he used," Riddle pointed out.

The green-eyed teen stared. "Wouldn't they?"

Stupid question if no one could even make a freaking portkey to take him back to London.

The bright, red-eyed stare directed at him was unnerving.

"And here I had thought," Riddle began, surveyed him critically, tilted his head this way and that as he circled Harry slowly in the manner a shark might before lunging to bite. He made no sound save for the whisper of fabric brushing against itself as he moved and came to a stop at Harry's side. "I thought that you would wish to keep more children from being orphaned as you were," he added softly, "that you would wish to prevent more children from being taken by me before their time... Was I wrong in this presumption?" His expression was pensive for a moment, turned inward. Then it cleared and his eyes locked on Harry, dark and deep and unnerving.

Harry felt a horrible tightening in his chest.

He knew he was being played; that the other was aware of his weaknesses—if Riddle knew them, it made sense that Death would—but he couldn't imagine being the cause of more orphans... not when Riddle had informed him in a roundabout way that his very presence—wherever they were—would prevent more people from dying; from more children losing parents. To prevent more parents losing their children well before they should.

His mind flicked back to earlier that day—or was it earlier that night? Yesterday?—to the deaths of those he cared about and knew; Remus and Tonks, hands clasped together even in death; Lavender Brown, eyes as unfocused as those of her favourite professor; Dennis Creevey, never to take another picture again; Mr. and Mrs Weasley crying over the body of their fallen son.

The list went on...

But back to his other priorities, he rubbed at his face in weariness. Had he really only been up less than an hour? It already felt too long.

"Hermione... Ron..." he swallowed his trepidation, "Is everyone—"

"Your loved ones are alive and largely unhurt."

Bright green eyes narrowed, studied Riddle with warily. "_Largely_?"

"Nothing that will entail a visit from myself," Riddle elaborated, bored, shifted away from the bed with that disquieting silence to his movements.

That was... good, Harry supposed. But hardly very informative. "But are they okay?"

"They will live, _yes_," Riddle crooned mockingly, shifted in agitation, "without any lasting physical damage from your confrontation with Voldemort."

While not the best explanation... Harry decided he could revisit this conversation later. When the other was in a better mood.

"Explain where... Arda exists, in relation to London."

Riddle's lips twitched. "Arda exists on a completely different plain of existence to that of London," he confessed, politely.

_Another plain of existence!?_

Harry stared, struck dumb.

"Am _I_ dead?" He didn't think so. Last time he'd died well... it hadn't hurt. And this would be the very last place he'd expect to wind up in the afterlife.

"What good are material possessions to the dead?" questioned Riddle, a dark brow arched and Harry had to wonder at Death's ability to imitate someone so well.

Still, the response was hardly definitive.

"Am I?" Harry demanded, sitting as straight as he could on his squishy moss bed and somehow, yanking his hair in the process.

His head still felt oddly heavy.

Riddle's visage darkened for a moment then he smiled at Harry tightly and his words when he spoke were syrupy with distain. "Of course not, _Master_. Or had you forgotten that you were summoned here by another for help? The afterlife is in no need of a... _hero_, such as yourself."

Harry shot Riddle a glare. It went ignored. "Who's to say this isn't some elaborate lie? Or that I'm unconscious? Or—"

"Unconscious?" quipped Riddle, slyly. "No. I dare say even you could not possibly sleep longer than the 54 years in which you have been here."

54 years?! Now he _knew_ Riddle was lying. The Elder wand reappeared in Harry's hand as he surged forward and—

"What—?

Collapsed ungracefully upon the strange warm, wooden platform, his legs having given out beneath him.

He glanced down at his violently shaking limbs, clenched his fingers as tightly as he could, only to discover the grasp was still embarrassingly weak. Had the wand he held been any heavier, he realised he wouldn't have been able to hold it all; just as he was unable to completely support his weight. What was that called again?

For a moment, Riddle simply peered down at him then murmured, patronisingly; "You have been in a deep sleep for many years, _Harry_. Your muscles are merely unused to moving. Be thankful they did not waste away in your hibernation, rather, your sleep was something of a stasis."

Harry glared up at the other figure. "And you thought not to tell me this sooner?"

"You never asked."

Then Riddle did the unthinkable; he reached down in one fluid motion, picked Harry up so gently the poor teen thought he was having an out of body experience then dumped him, _without_ care, back on the bed. There Harry bounced several times before his weight settled.

The Elder wand vanished once more and the boy stared at the other feeling horribly out of sorts.

It was looking more and more probable that Riddle was speaking the truth. Although, how much of it was true in its entirety was still up in the air. In fact, now that his mind was settling, he realised he'd taken what the other claimed largely at face value and felt remarkable foolish for doing so. Who was to say that this really was the—_an_—embodiment of Death and _not_ Riddle?

"Don't you have er, things to, you know... do?" he muttered, referring to Death's duties, envisioned a cloaked figure and a sickle.

"You harbour some rather strange preconceived notions in regards to my being," Riddle observed, usually smooth brow creased in an almost amused expression. "You believe me held by the typical constraints of Time; you are incorrect in this presumption as I exist _beyond_ it."

If that was true... "You can be in more than one place at a time?"

"More or less."

Harry studied his still unsteady hands, both as smooth as they'd been the day of the Battle at Hogwarts... How could that have been 54 years ago? How did that relate to him? Did that make Hermione, Ron and the others all 54 years older as well? If Riddle was to be believed, was it possible that the time was different for them, too?

"How does this apply to me?"

"Ah," the older male chuckled. "An intelligent question. As you are connected to me, you too, exist beyond Time's grasp. You will never age beyond the day you came willingly to my side. That, however, does not mean you are impervious to myself. You will still die if dealt a mortal wound. You will die from thirst or hunger; heat or cold..."

Harry barely heard his words beyond un-aging.

He'd assumed, as Riddle claimed, that if 54 years had past, the reason he'd retained his youth was due to whatever 'stasis' he'd been under...

Riddle regarded him with shrewd, scarlet eyes. "While I find your worrying over trivial matters, such as agelessness, amusing, I daresay your teenage angst is quite the reverse. You know, one might even presume you eager to return to my side considering, of course, your uncanny strokes of dumb luck when it comes to escaping dangerous situation."

Heat flooded Harry's cheeks and his mouth dropped open, aghast.

"I'm not! I was... my friends—" he spluttered inelegantly, wondered if he'd be able to thump Riddle over the head with something. Death or not, he'd felt quite corporeal when he'd lifted Harry. Irritation surged through his veins like a peculiar itch.

"How utterly _precious_," the other drawled, red eyes gleaming in an almost predator light as his head cocked to the side. "Why so flustered, _Harry_? Did my words hit a little close to home?"

The Gryffindor scoffed, eyes blazing killing-curse green. "Don't flatter yourself, Ri—"

The soft questioning tone of the girl that tended him earlier cut off Harry's words. He turned, annoyance carrying over to see her manoeuvre through the delicate archway of her home—presumably—toward him. She was holding a bright, silvery tray which bore a bowl of clear broth; a loaf of fresh, golden bread; several small dishes of what he presumed to be butter, two different types of fruit preserves and a mug of some fruit-scented drink.

His stomach rumbled, appreciative of the sight. Until that point, he hadn't realised just how hungry he was...

And then he saw the expression on the girl's very pretty face; saw her thinly veiled curiosity, excitement and perplexity. She said something else in that beautiful, lyrical way that made him think she was singing—although he doubted it—and set the tray in his lap, smiling at him.

"She advised you to eat," Riddle translated. Lips thinned he peered at the girl in what seemed to be displeasure.

"_Thank you_," Harry smiled his thanks at the girl, his own words leaving his mouth in the same foreign language she spoke. She beamed at him and started nattering on about something he didn't understand but again, Riddle translated as he crept closer, stood almost looming over the Gryffindor's shoulder in what would appear to most like a protective stance.

To Harry it was simply an intimidation tactic.

It was ignored in favour of the food before him, the appetising scents of spices and fruit and warm bread inhaled upon every breath. With unsteady hands, he filled the provided soup spoon with the broth and took a tentative sip.

_Mmmm._

Green-eyes sliding closed in pleasure, Harry savoured at the warmth and buttery taste that exploded on his palette after what seemed like forever—and based on Riddle's implication, was as close to—relished the sensation of the liquid trickling down his throat. Murmuring his appreciation, he took another, more enthusiastic spoonful all the while the girl kept up a steady stream of chatter.

Apparently it got on Riddle's wick.

"Poor deluded girl," the older male sneered and Harry was surprised that the girl didn't recoil from that glance alone.

The teen cast the elder man a quelling look. "Don't be rude."

Ruby eyes slid toward him, flashed but their owner said nothing more on the matter. He stepped back and away.

The girl ceased her prattle, blinked at his words, foreign to her ear as they were spoken in English, then glanced in the direction of Riddle. Very slowly, she peered back down at him, a small frown creased her brow as she spoke again.

"She said that if you were willing later, she would have you taken down to bathe," Riddle drawled, moved around the platform once more, this time closer to the girl. Close enough to be considered inappropriate by those that weren't well acquainted and perhaps more, beside. "I surmise this is her way of avoiding the elephant in the room."

"...Elephant—" Harry's throat tightened, his urge to shout out a warning grew as pale, spidery fingers stroked the girl's ivory cheek and...

She remained none the wiser.

"Surely you _must_ have noticed, Harry," Riddle murmured, condescending, eyelids lowered half-mast and a tiny, warped smirk gripping the very edge of his pale lips. He swiftly stepped away, as if disgusted by touching the girl, immediately moved closer to Harry, brought his hands to the teen's slim shoulders instead.

_He couldn't mean..._

"She can't see you..." the teen realised, somehow shocked by this revelation and yet not.

"No," Riddle agreed smoothly, slipped around the back of the bed, hands still clasped around Harry's shoulders, he peered over the boy's messy head.

"No one can see you," Harry breathed and despite not being able to see him, the teen knew Riddle was smirking.

"No one but you."

_Oh joy._

* * *

I do so adore writing Death!Riddle. Many of you may disagree. As to why Death is impersonating Riddle... Well you shall have to wait a while longer yet. Some of you are likely wonder at the fact several subjects were touched on and then apparently 'abandoned' by Harry as Riddle directed his attention elsewhere... Many of these will be brought up again in the future.

A departure from my usual infinitely more 'mature' scheming and-manipulative!Harrys. Don't worry, he'll get there. Maybe. Continuation of this fic is dependant entirely on the reception it receives as well as my own interest which is, admittedly, quite unpredictable and somewhat restricted at present.

My elves shall stay as close to Tolkien's interpretation as possible.

Love it? Loathe it? Questions?

Constructive criticism is always welcome. Plus, I only very quickly skimmed it for errors, spot any? Please let me know.


	2. In which Harry gains a new name

This is the same chapter I just had to re-add it after some issues. Additional notes are at the bottom of this page. Sincere thanks to all of you for your support in this story. It's success blew me away. So far it is by far the best reception I have had for anything I have written. **EDIT: 10/05/2014** - Oh and I lied, I have Neo-Sindarin nouns, too. In regards to certain words, those shall also be addressed at the end of this chapter.

* * *

-x&x-

**2**

**In which Harry gains a new name and learns several things**

-x&x-

* * *

Of course no one else could see Riddle; it would be far too easy for him otherwise. _Really_. When had anything in his life ever been easy?

At least, the parts of his life that he could recall, at any rate.

So, naturally the rest of Harry's meal had been... awkward. At best.

Awkward, because he couldn't understand a word that passed his care-taker's lips—was dead certain Riddle _hadn't_ translated everything she said due to the almost expectant pauses she gave on occasion, then the disappointed confusion that followed these pauses when he did not fill them—and because every so often he'd flinch or in some way react to Riddle... which she was unable to see, yet she still glanced in the direction he had, as though to glimpse the cause of his discomfort.

Harry wasn't sure which was worse: waking up in some unknown place, where he couldn't understand the natives and had to rely on a manifestation of Death to translate for him or; the fact that only _he_ could see said translator and that he was certain his gracious host thought him certifiably insane because of it.

She wouldn't be alone there; he had already begun to question his own sanity, mainly due to the fact that he placed _any_ amount of trust in Riddle to begin with. Something that went against every fibre of his being.

He really needed to learn whatever language they spoke in this place and fast.

_Perhaps a translation spell?_ He considered. Sure, it was a quick fix—if it existed, but it _must_—and he presumed Riddle would appreciate not having to be the intermediary any longer. Surely that was part of the reason the man was so... _moody_?

_But if this is so, why hasn't he suggested it himself?_ He wondered, then reconsidered this assumption.

So far, Riddle hadn't offered information not asked of him and then, supplied it in ways that Harry thought he received what he was requesting or else an answer that was vague to the point he had to reword his question or give up on an comprehensible answer.

"You did that on purpose!" Harry accused his unlikely interpreter the moment he was certain his host—he really needed to learn her name—was out of earshot.

His heart sank when he caught the girl's brief hesitation further along the platform.

_What,_ he inwardly groaned,_ do the people here have supernatural hearing or something?!_

"Really, Harry," chided Riddle with a tsk, features revealing his unfettered delight at Harry's _most _unfortunate predicament. The Gryffindor had never wanted to hex the man more in his life. Who knew he had the capacity to be so truly vexing? "One would presume you to possess a fraction more tact than that red-haired companion of yours."

Harry reared back with a hiss, wand back in his white-knuckled grasp at his side.

Funny how he was gradually growing use to it, even if he preferred his wand of Holly.

He still felt a pang of loss as he recalled its broken state. He hadn't completely given up hope on fixing it someday, maybe with use of the Elder wand but now...

"But I digress," Riddle proceeded, glided around the platform silent as a phantom, piercing eyes never quite leaving Harry's seated figure. "Caution is a practise in which you sorely need to invest, as it is abundantly clear you are lacking in this area.

"After all you have seen, all you have _caused_ in your moments of recklessness... One would hope you to have learned from such... lessons."

That was strangely pointed and struck with a precision that was staggering. Harry jerked. Then immediately tried to hide it as he shifted, restless and discomforted on his bed, scowled through frosty green eyes, jaw clenched shut.

He felt... exposed and small. Even smaller than ever, like a bug pinned to a corkboard and held under a microscope for Riddle's casual perusal and dissection.

He _hated_ it.

Even more so with the current vast height disadvantage. However he couldn't risk standing for fear of gravity taking hold of him again in less than an hour and... judging by the way the other was currently watching him, he doubted that Riddle would be quite so sympathetic if he were to collapse a second time...

"My recklessness has saved lives," the teen retorted, the words weak , brittle as they left his tongue. His hands fisted, nails cut into the flesh of his palms and the pungent salty-metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, tainted the scent of earth and trees and flowers.

He barely noticed the difference.

Or that his wand, again, had vanished.

The elder said nothing for long moments, merely observed him through calculating wine-coloured eyes that reminded Harry of the blood now dribbling down his hands. "Perhaps it _has_," Riddle granted with a magnanimous inclination of his head.

Now Harry just felt like a toy for the other's amusement.

"It is, at moments such as these, that makes me wonder _how_ you managed to defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort," Riddle divulged quietly, eyes bright with reflection. "You are so alike an yet so very different. If circumstances were altered, one must wonder how events may have played out. He a politician? You a follower? Perhaps you the villain and he the hero?"

The Gryffindor barely had enough presence of mind to stop himself from growling out a curse word.

Or four.

Could the man not stay on one subject at a time? Trying to keep up with him was exhausting. Harry suspected that was the other's intention.

Well, two could play that game—

"Distracting me won't do you any good, Riddle," Harry declared, staunch in the believe that he was correct. "You could have warned me before hand that no one else could see you," the teen reiterated, glad for a subject that he deemed 'safe' and that they were now alone, if only so he could vent his mounting frustration.

And in the event he lost his temper, he could always _hex_ Riddle.

If it worked, of course.

Presumably—at least, based upon the tale, if not how he himself received his first Hallow—his invisibility cloak worked against Death, who was to say the other Hallows couldn't?

That was likely the optimism rearing its unwanted head.

Hey, it was worth a shot.

The ruby-eyed male granted him a highly entertained look. "Oh? I suppose I could have."

Harry stared at him, waited. Riddle stared back.

A pause.

"That's it?" the teen hissed, doing an eerie impression of a snake and had to wonder, disturbed, if he'd slipped into Parseltongue. Which the horcrux gone, was that even possible? "That's the only excuse you have for making me look like a maniac?"

Riddle cocked his head. "Excuse? Hardly," he drawled, expression disturbingly _pleasant_ and made Harry inwardly cringe. There was something intrinsically wrong with that expression on the older male's face when torture _wasn't_ involved.

It also reminded him of an indulgent parent, allowing their child to have their way...

There was something terribly wrong with that visual as well.

"What need have I to excuse myself?" the older male added, "I merely agreed that I _could_ have told you, not that I _would_ do so.

"As to 'Making' you 'look like a maniac,' was it I, that possessed your body and made you speak?" he continued, tone perfectly reasonable. "I simply carried on as I had the entire time I have been here and was it not I, that pointed out the girl's inability to see me? Is it my fault you failed to noticed something many others would not have had this issue with?"

"That's not the point!" Harry grumbled, defensive.

Riddle's countenance shifted, softened again. "Is it not?" he murmured.

Harry's lips parted as if to answer but no sound emerged. He closed them again.

"I daresay even you are quite unsure as to what your _own_ point is," Riddle countered seriously, gestured at him. "Your face is flushed, teeth clenched and hands fisted... which suggests anger but then your shoulders are tight with tension, higher than usual and your knees drawn a _touch_ closer to yourself, body angled slightly away... which would lead one to believe yourself on the defensive—"

The Gryffindor froze as Riddle continued his assessment relentless as a bloodhound on game.

"Your inability to hold eye-contact for extended periods would suggest nervousness—fear. While not new to hazardous situations nor the comically repetitious nature in which these events occur, you now find yourself in an unknown, potentially hostile environment, with _none_ of your former support units or comforts and have been forced to rely on the one you perceive as being the cause of all your misfortune throughout life; your enemy.

"You are confused, angry, frustrated and _scared_. Because of this, you have painted yourself into a corner, unsure how to deal with it and are thus, lashing out in the way that is most natural to you, in the only direction you believe yourself as having.

"Does this sound about accurate to you?"

Harry stared a moment longer then looked away, unable to meet the other's eyes as the situation was laid out before him. Was he really just lashing out at Riddle because of his frustration over the situation?

_No. Of course not._ Riddle deserved his anger for being so uncooperative.

Didn't he?

Harry was really beginning to doubt himself. "Bravo," he congratulated, sarcastically. "You passed psycho-analysis one-oh-one. Good for you. Do you feel accomplished?"

"How utterly adorable," Riddle mused, cruelly. "To think that you could imitate me."

Heat flooded Harry's face.

_Bastard!_

The teen glowered. "Let's get back on track shall we?" he bit out. "We _were_ discussing how you could have easily informed me that no one else could see you, thus saving me from looking like a right fruit cake in front of other people and then _you_ turned it all into a debate—"

"Your definition of 'debate' is clearly in need of a revision," Riddle commented, scathingly.

"Merlin you're infuriating!" Harry cried exasperated, ran a hand through his... outrageously long hair, then blinked startled at the realisation that all that hair was actually _his._ He'd noticed it before, of course. Several times, in fact but—

Apparently, no one wanted to cut his hair while he'd been comatose and had allowed it to grow out. Comically so. His eyes followed length upon length of glossy, black that curled all around his spongy, green bed like a reel of ebony silk.

He supposed having twenty-seven or so feet of hair trailing after one would cause severe problems... and explain the heaviness to his head.

The urge to laugh at such ridiculously _obvious_ knowledge rose from within him but he pushed it aside. Hysterical laughter would only make him look more unhinged than he suspected his host already believed. Even if she wasn't present to witness his display this time.

Riddle suggested caution, right?

"Am I?" Riddle smiled, somehow looking perfectly _innocent_.

Harry frowned, horribly thrown from his musings. The image was bound to give Harry nightmares for years to come. He was unable to prevent his body from shuddering at the depiction that went so against everything he knew Tom Riddle to be. He shivered, felt chilled all the way down to the very depths of his bones.

"I figured something as important as my _sanity_, in a world I have no knowledge in, would have been shared earlier," the boy bit out as calmly as he could. "You know, in the _unlikely_ event those whose kindness I rely on decide I'm not safe to be—"

Riddle's gaze was knowing. "What happened to the optimistic Gryffindor?" he queried, curiously.

Harry knew a hidden barb when he heard it. He ground his teeth together. At this rate, they would be reduced to little ivory nubs and bloody bits of gum, all because Riddle had to be _maddening_!

"If it's all the same to you, I would still—

"Besides," dismissed Riddle, with a casual wave of his hand, "matters of importance are subjective,"

_Subjective?_

And Harry exploded, green eyes _flaming_. "What do you mean bloody subjective?!"

Riddle smiled benevolently, the display at odds with the piercing ruby facets of his eyes. He lounged indolently against the nearest tree trunk like a huge, apathetic cat, fingers on his left hand taping against the silvery bark. "Yes, subjective," he voiced, tauntingly soft. "You understand the general concept of the word, surely? That which may be considered of great import to you, may not be so for _me_; therefore, _subjective_."

The teen gaped for all of several seconds before he regained his composure. "I thought I was the master of Death... or rather, you?"

"You are Death's master, yes," the Riddle lookalike agreed, breezily.

"Well then," the Gryffindor voiced musingly, eyed the other with mounting perplexity and no small amount of distrust, "Shouldn't anything pertaining to my overall wellbeing _be_ considered of importance?"

"Forgive me, _Master_—" again with the sarcasm, "—am I to understand that you wish for me to play nursemaid to ease your... insecurities?" And if Harry thought Riddle's tone cool before, it was downright glacial now. "And here I thought you prided yourself on your independence... How wrong I was."

"I never said—" the teen fumbled, face hot in a mixture of rage and mortification. Could he say nothing that Riddle wouldn't be able to throw back in his face with humiliating ease?

Ruby eyes narrowed. "No?" Uttered Riddle, visage a study of stillness. "Then perhaps you may wish to consider that the world consists of more than you or your childish whims and insecurities. The world shall not stop turning on its axis just because you take issue with how you are perceived by others, nor save those on Death's list from their collection.

"_Special_, though you may be compared to some, you are but _one being_ of many, _many_ more... In this way, you are not irreplaceable."

Chest heaving as he struggled to calm himself, Harry swallowed, glowered down into his lap at the chastisement.

In this case, Riddle was right and it absolutely _galled_ him to realise that _he_ was in the wrong this time.

Merlin, if the _real_ Riddle was even halfway as good as this one at turning someone's words against them, he understood how the man achieved all he had.

The bloke likely had the ability to talk the poor out of the last of their clothes...

Nails bit into the flesh of his thighs as he clenched them in his lap, stained his robe russet with his slowly coagulating blood.

He felt so... so off centre. Like his world had been uprooted—and he supposed it _had_—still, after that reprimand he felt like... such an immature child throwing a temper tantrum... and he supposed in comparison to Riddle's vast age he would seem so.

How many millennia had Death witnessed? How many lives born only for him to take them again once time was up? Harry couldn't help but think that a terribly lonely existence. In the grand scheme of things, he realised he was largely insignificant. Just another creature of a great many born and destined to die from his first breath only... only he'd _never_ die now. Not from old age, at least. Not unless someone killed him or he was claimed by the elements.

He'd always been told he was selfless but this made him seem somewhat self-centred.

_Like Dudley..._

The comparison made him nauseous and his stomach threatened to bring up all that he'd eaten with a sickening lurch.

Granted, Dudley hadn't turned out quite so bad...

"The exclusion being master of Death, I take it," Harry groused.

Riddle's gaze on him felt heavy but he didn't look up. Couldn't. Not in his shame.

"In time, another will be born to claim the mantle you are so willing to discard," the elder corrected with a drawl. "I trust you are now over your little pity party?"

Harry's eyes flashed angrily. "I was never—"

"Good," Riddle grinned sharply, cutting him off. "Because we have company."

Harry blinked. _Compa—_

"_Welcome to Caras Galadhon, he who enchants the stars, at last we meet_."

The teen's head turned away from Riddle, toward the newcomer; the first person beside Riddle to speak in a language he understood, even if the accent was strange.

The woman that greeted him was beautiful.

With eyes a bright grey that looked almost silver in the light, silvery-gold tresses caught in a glimmering circlet of intricate twists and knots, she looked exactly how he imagined a Queen of the Seelie court to appear. Considering their location, it seemed somehow fitting.

Riddle eyed her blandly, apparently unconcerned nor intrigued by her appearance and Harry realised, with some annoyance, that he probably already knew all about her.

"_I am Galadriel_," the woman continued, stepped closer to his bed in whispering cascades of ivory and cream silk. It was then he realised that the woman wasn't speaking English at all, rather he could just understand whatever language _she_ spoke.

_Riddle_, he decided, without resentment for once.

"_Lady of Lothlórien_," the Lady concluded.

_Lady? Like nobility? _

"_Nice meeting you, my Lady_," Harry bowed as low as he was able in his bed, hoping he wasn't making a fool of himself. He felt like a clumsy oaf in comparison to her sure, graceful movements. She was as regal as any Queen.

She dipped her head kindly, a smile at the edge of her mouth and eyes. "_And I, you, __Lúthiel Everlight_._ Long have I desired to meet the one of whom I dreamed..._"

_Dreamed..._?

"_Lúthiel... Everlight_?" he parroted, features set into an expression of utter confusion.

Oh, well this explained the warm welcome. He had clearly been confused with another...

_And_ _Caras Galadhon_?_ Lothlórien_?

Riddle had told him he was in Arda.

He paused, reconsidered his hasty conclusion. Perhaps Caras Galadhon was the name of the city in which they presently found themselves? If that was the case... what was Arda? A State? Country? Continent? Perhaps a realm? Was there a difference? But where did Lothlórien come into everything if that was so?

The Lady smiled indulgently. "_Lúthiel Everlight... the name bestowed upon you by those that bore witness to your arrival in Lothlórien. A sight none who saw shall ever see again. Nor soon forget. The very stars themselves heralded your coming in silver and gold rain, enchanted the skies to dance in welcome and thus you were named Enchanter of Stars_," she explained then added, without moving her lips;

"_But I understand you go by another name elsewhere... You are a long way from home, Haeri Potta.__**"**_

Harry jerked at the voice suddenly resounding within the confines of his mind, reminded horribly of the times he'd had Voldemort messing about inside his head.

Was this a form of Legilimency? Prior to his sixteen birthday he'd been absolute pants at Occlumency and imagined any bloke and their mother could read his thoughts without much skill when it came to the mind arts. However, afterwards no one had a chance except Voldemort. The man was the only exception, it seemed, to everything Harry related.

"_My intention was not to startle you,__**"**_ whispered the Lady into his mind, contritely. _**"**__But I fear few would understand should they overhear.__**"**_

_I... understand_, he thought.

And he did.

Perfectly.

He'd been ostracised enough as a child on and off to understand how fickle people could truly be. Then again, he was beginning to doubt that the Lady and her 'people' were what he was used to dealing with.

"_And... Lúthiel's a fine name_," he confessed.

Galadriel gifted him a soft, knowing smile that wavered. "_Yet your mind is still much troubled,_" she observed, her smile dying, replaced instead with a solemn, compassionate mien. _**"**__For your waking here was unexpected... and unwanted, yet you desire to escape the stigma attached to your name, thus your acceptance of the title bestowed by my people... And your heart is heavy with worry for those you left behind.__**"**_ Her words echoed through his thoughts.

She tensed suddenly. "_You have most illustrious... friends_."

At that, Harry's eyes slid to the still very present, silent shadow that was Riddle standing as far away from the pair as he could possibly get. If she was able to read his mind, he had no illusions to the fact she was well aware of this third presence in the 'room' even if she could not see him.

"_Mandos,_" she uttered and the Gryffindor wondered, distantly, if that was an oath which hadn't translated over just as Lúthiel had not... although something in him seemed to feel the word was a name and one much closer to home.

This instinct was correct.

"_Galadriel_," Riddle returned, much to the shock of Harry, who stared as the man uncoiled from his slouch, approached on effortlessly graceful footfalls and as Galadriel... _observed_ his advance with wary eyes. "_As curious as always..._"

How was she able to see him when others could not? Or rather, weren't meant to? Wasn't he meant to be the only person able to see Death, as his master? Hadn't Riddle...

_No_, he realised disgruntled. While Riddle had claimed 'only' Harry could see him, he hadn't elaborated on those words and the Gryffindor had taken the statement at face value. Only now Harry realised the man hadn't, implicitly, given this as fact.

Which meant, he could have revealed himself to Harry's Host at any time...

Merlin, this was so like Riddle!

Despite not being the real Tom Riddle, he still had the unusual ability to piss Harry off more than anyone else ever born. Created. Whatever.

"_Celeborn,_" Riddle added, a sardonic edge to his voice.

The teen jumped in his bed as he noticed the other being that had joined them. A fair-haired man of a height with the Lady—which the teen realised was really, _very_ tall for a woman now he could compare her to Riddle's towering height, which was, at the very _least_, six foot _eight_—and clad in equally fine garments in similar hues. "_I had wondered if you would come._"

That tone of voice implied how little Riddle thought of the man, presumably Celeborn, at that moment. Actually, it seemed the lookalike of his erstwhile enemy liked neither of the fair-haired couple much at all.

Come to think on it, he hadn't seemed too fond of Harry's caretaker, either...

Shaking the thought from his mind, interested green eyes drifted back to the fair-haired man. Just who was he? Galadriel's husband, perhaps?

Seemed likely by the closeness in which they stood and ease as they manoeuvred around each other.

"_We are in illustrious company, indeed_," Celeborn shared mildly, gaze inquisitive. "_Tell me, if you may, Mandos, what summons you so far from your Halls in Valinor? Long have we suspected the return of the Valar in Middle Earth with its rekindled spirits and your gift of a star clad in flesh_, _but to what purpose? Surely you mean not to deprive our people of the hope that brightens their hearts_?"

Harry barely understood what he said... What was a Valar? Presumably, Riddle was one considering he came from some place called Valinor.

He would have thought, perhaps, it some form of council but if it included Death... Maybe the Valar were other beings like Death?

_Like Gods..._?

The teen paused. More supreme beings like Riddle?

Well, wasn't that disturbing.

"_The end of the Age will soon be upon us_," Galadriel murmured, thoughtful as she paced upon the wooden platform. Like Riddle, she made no sound save for the heavy _rustle_ of her gown brushing against itself. "_The time of the Elves draws to a close... yet, it is not the intention of the Valar to have it so, for you have gifted us with one whose light has halted the fading of Middle Earth_."

_Light? Time of the Elves?_ The Gryffindor wondered that what Galadriel and her people were? Elves? But they looked nothing like... well... _Kreacher_; loyal, sombre and oft-times misguided though he was.

Then again, they _were_ living in a city of beautiful silver and gold trees... and aside from being considerably slender and extremely tall, with faces that were certainly more beautiful than any back home, excluding those that possessed traces of certain creature blood like Fleur and her family of part-Veela—there was also Zabini that Harry harboured serious doubts about—Galadriel and Celeborn looked human.

Oh, wait.

Their ears were, perhaps, a tad pointier than normal but nothing overly noticeable...

On the other hand, who was to say there weren't other types of elves? After all, different world, different cultures, right?

"_A child born of the stars,_" Celeborn added to Galadriel's words, his gaze upon Harry now,"_Lórien was most adamant we prepare for your coming, Favoured of the Judge._"

71 was considered a _child_? Just how old were Galadriel and Celeborn, then?

Or perhaps they weren't aware of how old he truly was? No, Galadriel had to be aware having... viewed his mind. But Celeborn? He had to know Harry was at least 54 years old... and the passage of time couldn't have been too terribly different considering the twenty-odd feet length of his hair pooling around his bed. Both Galadriel and Celeborn looked no older than their mid to late twenties, but as a noble—or the partner? of one—surely the information of how long Harry had been there would have reached them?

He was getting a headache and not because of his excessively long hair.

Alright, so if one presumed that Celeborn _was_ aware Harry was at least 54 years old, he could hardly be considered a child... Least of all to a man half his age.

Still, he didn't exactly feel that age. He felt no older than seventeen, the same age he had prior to his unexpected trip through dimensions and the consequential coma. He guessed this to be the reason for his mental maturity having remained unchanged. How was his mind meant to mature if it was unconscious?

"_My Lúthiel is favoured by many of those in Valinor_," Riddle informed the presumed Elven pair, a certain darkness lingered about his features as he addressed Celeborn. "_As you will come to see._"

"_Yours_?" Harry exclaimed, outraged. His fingertips sparked an eerie, killing-curse green.

Startled, he clasped his hands together, attempted to calm his anger as the flickering light faded. _That_ had never happened before... sure, he'd blown his Aunt Marge up in his third year but most other outbursts were minimal. Besides which, shouldn't his random bursts of wandless magic have stopped by now? Wasn't that limited to untrained children?

Calming himself, he tried again, tone infinitely more composed, if still in English. "Since when?"

Riddle eyed him languidly, as a predator might prey while picking apart weaknesses. "Since you willingly gave yourself to me," he purred, lowly and took up a long lock of Harry's hair, twirled it around his thin finger. "In life you hold the title of Master, in death the role returns to me. Now you are stuck with me for life and I, with you in death.

"And I am _certainly_ looking forward to it."

The low chuckle he let out chilled Harry's blood and the teen licked his suddenly dry lips, a cold sweat breaking out upon his forehead even as his blood began to boil.

"I belong to no one," the teen snapped, smacked Riddle's hand away like an annoying gnat. "Least of all, _you_."

Riddle was not at all deterred as he gracefully shifted a fraction away from the bed of moss.

"Then perhaps you should have considered the ramifications of your actions _before_ you took them," he pointed out, a cruelness edging his lips.

Harry's chest constricted as he recalled the reasons for his willingness to die. "I just wanted to save those I cared about!"

Riddle inclined his head smoothly, twitched the front of his blazer back into place despite the fact that the teen saw nothing wrong with it to begin with. "No matter the cost to yourself," the scarlet-eyed man agreed, blithely. Either ignorant to Harry's growing ire or dismissive of it. The Gryffindor figured the latter. "Now, perhaps, you see my point?"

What was this? One moment he was being a self-absorbed brat and now he was too self_less_? Could he do nothing right in Riddle's eyes? Or rather, could the sodding prick not make up _his_ mind?

"I thought the cost was my life," Harry countered, offended, gripped at his already ruined robes. "I thought that would be it. The end. Ad infinitum!"

Riddle's thin lips curled in obvious disdain. "How naïve. Few things ever _truly_ end, Harry. To think, I believed you would have gathered this when you were allowed to see your loved ones before your... appointment with me. However, you did not. One must question the validity of your presumed intelligence."

"Gee, thanks," the boy sniped.

"_He has a warriors spirit_," Galadriel observed, forestalling the impending argument with those words alone.

Harry jolted, recalling that he wasn't alone with Riddle and that the Lady and... Lord? Were both present. His cheeks heated in utter humiliation at having _them_ witness his argument with Riddle... Well, he supposed to them he was arguing with this... Mandos? bloke.

Merlin, even _that_ was bad form.

Riddle shot Galadriel a look Harry wasn't able to decipher.

"_Er... sorry my Lord, Lady,_" the teen began tentatively, unsure if Celeborn was, in fact, a lord.

The corners of Galadriel's eyes slanted with a hidden smile. _**"**__Think nothing of it, young Haeri,__**"**_ her voice echoed in his mind before she added, aloud; "_You are indeed favoured of Mandos, Lúthiel. Few have possessed the bravery to speak their thoughts to the Judge of the Fallen and none of those have done so without grave consequence._"

Harry wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not.

Besides, having Riddle follow him around was a rather large consequence in itself.

"_Erm, thank you?_" he murmured, uncertain. "_Can I ask a question, Lady Galadriel?_"

From observation, most people in power were a tetchy bunch that disliked being interrupted. Case in point, Riddle, whose bright eyed gaze was narrowed on him. Harry refused to back down, he hadn't done anything this time, nor was his curiosity 'childish' but rather he wanted to know more about the circumstances of his arrival.

At the Lady's encouraging nod, Harry spoke. "_You said your people named me for my arrival_... _And you, yourself dreamed of me_..." he added.

The Lady inclined her head, her expression open and curious. "_Long have I awaited your coming... You, who would bear all the hopes of my people into the future and beyond_."

Harry blinked, owlishly_... Coming? Right._

He didn't believe her a day older than 26. Tops. How could she have foreseen his 'coming' when she was yet to be born? He shot Riddle a quizzical look. Still, he received nothing from the man in return but an arched brow.

"_Then perhaps you know of the one that brought me here_?" was the eagerly asked question.

Galadriel's brow creased minutely, tilted her head silvery-gold tresses. "_You refer not to Mandos or Oromë _?"

_Oromë ?_

Harry paused, "_No..._" He cast Riddle a sidelong glance, ran his hands down the front of his robe in agitation. His freshly scabbed palms caught on the fabric, reopened his wounds. Inwardly, he sighed. "_I was asking after the man named Galemir._"

Hopefully Oromë wasn't another name for Galemir.

"_Galemir... he whom you sought in my visions,_" Galadriel replied, turned slowly to regard the suddenly ominous presence of Riddle. A cold darkness emanated from him like living, breathing shadow, dimmed the light that illuminated Harry's ward. "_Yet this... person is unknown to us by this name. Perchance, we know them by another?_"

The dark-haired man smiled tightly, blood-red eyes glittering in some—as yet to be shared—hilarity.

"_Galemir is his Epessë,_" he replied. "_His Amilessë Apacenyë and Cilmessë are one and the same, kept close to his heart. He would sooner abandon his people to the shadow than willingly relinquish the only link to his Mother._"

Galadriel and Celeborn both looked momentarily startled. An expression likely shared by Harry.

That was surprisingly informative of Riddle, for once. But before Harry could question him further, particularly on what those other words meant, Celeborn spoke, carefully.

"_Come, let us not dwell on this further. Perhaps on the morrow would better be advised for such a heavy subject._"

How was that a heavy subject? He was under the distinct impression he was missing something here... Likely something to do with those words he didn't understand.

His frustration with the entire situation was beginning to build.

_So much for getting answers!_

Galadriel smiled her agreement, though her gaze drifted, briefly, to Riddle then back to focus upon Harry with an almost searing intensity. "_Camaenel shall soon return with Haldir to assist you. Rest well, Lúthiel..._

"_For you have earned it_,_**"**_ she added, directly into his thoughts.

* * *

Thank you to those that made it this far in my story. Personally, I felt this chapter somewhat disjointed in comparison to the first (which was all written in under a day, believe it or not) while this chapter was knocked together a bit at a time due to my inability to write, babysit my four year-old brother and pack up the house ready for my move next week. For that you have my sincerest apologies. I hope this has not been a disappointment to you all. I guess we will just have to see, right?

Regarding Harry's Elven name. Technically it could be Lúthielon. The 'on' suffix is added to names to make them masculine. Lúthiel, in this state is gender nonspecific, although on first glance it is feminine. I had such trouble with his Elven name—several pages of it—until I decided on this one and no, I didn't choose it because it looks pretty. This name in particular was selected for numerous reasons, several of these obvious and others perhaps a little more vague.

Harry will still refer to himself as such. That will never change. However, the Elves and later, everyone else will also refer to him as Lúthiel unless otherwise stated.

Harry being able to understand Sindarin. This was a quick fix and dependant entirely on how generous Riddle is feeling. Do not expect it to be so easy for Harry.

**EDIT: The Elven terms Riddle uses**. I honestly do not expect people to understand them unless a Tolkien buff or, like myself, obsessive with accuracy. I am only familiar with them after research. I never write anything without reason or first considering the knowledge or possible language barriers (slang excluded unless queried,) of those that read it. If you are familiar with these words—brilliant. If not and you cannot wait until my next update wherein I was going to explain them, check out realelvish dot net. The details are under 'Name lists.' The traditions of naming are there and have examples of how they work etc.

Constructive criticism? Any more questions? Errors? Please let me know. Also bear in mind I am just about to leave my current residence and will from today on, only be able to reply via my cell for about 2 weeks.


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